Harvest

by Tess Gerritsen

  “I’m sure he didn’t want to worry you,” said Abby.

  “But the truth doesn’t scare me. Really it doesn’t. Doctors don’t tell the truth often enough.” She looked straight at Abby. “We both know that.”

  Abby found her gaze shifting automatically to the monitors. She saw that all the lines tracing across the screen were in the normal ranges. Pulse. Blood pressure. Right atrial pressure. It was pure habit, that focus on the numbers. Machines didn’t pose difficult questions, didn’t expect painfully truthful answers.

  She heard Nina say, softly: “Victor.”

  Abby turned. Only then, as she faced the doorway, did she realize Victor Voss had just stepped into the cubicle.

  “Get out,” he said. “Get out of my wife’s room.”

  “I was only checking on her.”

  “I said, get out!” He took a step toward her and grabbed a handful of the isolation gown.

  Reflexively Abby resisted, pulling free. The cubicle was so tiny there was no more room to back away, no space to retreat to.

  He lunged at her. This time he caught hold of her arm with a grip that was meant to hurt.

  “Victor, don’t!” said Nina.

  Abby gave a cry of pain as she was wrenched forward. He thrust her out of the cubicle. The force of his shove sent her backward against the wheeled cart. She felt herself falling as the cart slid away. She landed hard on her buttocks. The cart, still rolling, slammed against a counter and charts thudded to the floor. Abby, stunned by the impact, looked up to see Victor Voss standing over her. He was breathing hard, not from exertion but from fury.

  “Don’t you go near my wife again,” he said. “Do you hear me, doctor? Do you hear me?” Voss turned his gaze to the shocked personnel standing around the SICU. “I don’t want this woman near my wife. I want that written in the chart and posted on the door. I want it done now.” He gave Abby one last look of disgust, then he walked into his wife’s cubicle and yanked the curtain across the window.

  Two of the nurses hurried over to help Abby to her feet.

  “I’m okay,” said Abby, waving them away. “I’m fine.”

  “He’s crazy,” one of the nurses whispered. “We should report him to Security.”

  “No, don’t,” said Abby. “Let’s not make things worse.”

  “But that was assault! You could press charges.”

  “I just want to forget about it, okay?” Abby went over to the cart. Her charts were on the floor, loose pages and lab slips scattered everywhere. Face burning, she gathered up all the papers and set them back in the cart. By then she was fighting to hold back tears. I can’t cry, she thought. Not here. I won’t cry. She looked up.

  Everyone was watching her.

  She left the cart right where it was and walked out of the SICU.

  Mark found her three hours later, in the cafeteria. She was sitting at a corner table, hunched over a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin. The muffin had only one bite taken out of it, and the teabag had been left soaking so long the water was black as coffee.

  Mark pulled out a chair across from her and sat down. “Voss was the one who threw the tantrum, Abby. Not you.”

  “I’m just the one who landed on her butt in front of everyone.”

  “He shoved you. That’s something you can use. Leverage against any more of those nutty lawsuits.”

  “You mean I charge him with assault?”

  “Something like that.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to think about Victor Voss. I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”

  “There were half a dozen witnesses. They saw him push you.”

  “Mark, let’s forget the whole thing.” She picked up the muffin, took an unenthusiastic bite, and put it back down again. She sat staring at it, desperately wanting to change the subject.

  Finally she said, “Did Aaron agree about starting antibiotics?”

  “I haven’t seen Aaron all day.”

  She looked up, frowning. “I thought he was here.”

  “I beeped him but he never answered.”

  “Did you call his home?”

  “I got the housekeeper. Elaine left for the weekend, visiting their kid at Dartmouth.” Mark shrugged. “It’s Saturday. This isn’t Aaron’s weekend to make rounds anyway. He probably decided to take a vacation from all of us.”

  “A vacation,” Abby sighed and rubbed her face. “God, that’s what I want. A beach and a few palm trees and a piöa colada.”

  “Sounds good to me, too.” Reaching across the table, he took her hand. “Mind if I join you?”

  “You don’t even like piöa coladas.”

  “But I like beaches and palm trees. And you.” He gave her hand a squeeze. That was just what she needed at that moment. His touch. It felt as solid and dependable as the man himself.

  He leaned across the table. Right there, in the cafeteria, he kissed her. “Look at us. Creating another public spectacle,” he whispered. “You’d better go home, before we get everyone’s attention.”

  She glanced at her watch. It was twelve o’clock, and a Saturday. The weekend, at last, had begun.

  He walked her out of the cafeteria and across the hospital lobby. As they pushed through the front doors he said, “I almost forgot to tell you. Archer called Wilcox Memorial and spoke to some thoracic surgeon named Tim Nicholls. Turns out Nicholls assisted on the harvest. He confirmed the patient was theirs. And that Dr. Mapes did the excision.”

  “Then why isn’t Mapes listed on the Wilcox staff?”

  “Because Mapes was flown in by private jet from Houston. We knew nothing about it. Apparently, Mr. Voss didn’t trust just any Yankee surgeon to do the job. So he had a specialist flown in.”

  “All the way from Texas?”

  “With his money, Voss could’ve flown in the whole Baylor team.”

  “So the harvest was done at Wilcox Memorial.”

  “Nicholls says he was there. Whatever nurse you spoke to last night must’ve been looking at the wrong log sheet. If you’d like me to call and confirm it again—”

  “No, just forget it. It all seems so stupid now. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She sighed and looked across at her car, parked in its usual spot at the far end of the lot. Outer Siberia, the residents called their assigned parking area. Then again, slave labor was lucky to get assigned parking at all. “I’ll see you at home,” she said. “If I’m still awake.”

  He put his arms around her, tipped her head back, and kissed her, one tired body clinging to another. “Careful driving home,” he whispered. “I love you.”

  She walked across the lot, dazed by fatigue and by the sound of those three words still echoing in her head.

  I love you.

  She stopped and looked back to wave at him, but he had already vanished through the lobby doors.

  “I love you too,” she said, and smiled.

  She turned to her car, her keys already out of her purse. Only then did she notice that the lock button was up. Jesus, what an idiot. She’d left the car unlocked all night.

  She opened the door.

  At the first foul whiff of air, she backed away, gagging on the stench. And repulsed by the sight of what lay on the front seat.

  Loops of rotting intestine were coiled around the gear shift and one end hung like a grotesque streamer from the bottom of the steering wheel. A hacked-up mass of unidentifiable tissue was smeared across the passenger seat. And on the driver’s side, propped up against the cushion, was a single bloody organ.

  A heart.

  The address was in Dorchester, a rundown neighborhood in southeast Boston. He parked across the street and eyed the boxy house, the weedy lawn. There was a kid of about twelve bouncing a basketball in the driveway, every so often flinging it at a hoop over the garage, and missing every time. No athletic scholarship for that one. Judging by the junker of a car parked in the garage and the general shabbiness of the home, a scholarship would certainly come in handy.
>
  He got out of his car and crossed the street. As he walked up the driveway, the boy suddenly fell still. Hugging the ball to his chest, he eyed the visitor with obvious suspicion.

  “I’m looking for the Flynt residence.”

  “Yeah,” said the boy. “This is it.”

  “Are your parents at home?”

  “My dad is. Why?”

  “Maybe you could let him know he has a visitor.”

  “Who are you?”

  He handed the boy his business card. The boy read it with only vague interest, then tried to hand it back.

  “No, keep it. Show it to your father.”

  “You mean right now?”

  “If he’s not busy.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” The boy went into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him.

  A moment later a man came to the door, big-bellied, unsmiling. “You looking for me?”

  “Mr. Flynt, my name is Stewart Sussman. I’m with the law firm of Hawkes, Craig and Sussman.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I understand you were a patient at Bayside Medical Center six months ago.”

  “I was in an accident. Other guy’s fault.”

  “You had your spleen removed. Is that correct?”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I’m here in your best interests, Mr. Flynt. You had major surgery, did you not?”

  “They said I coulda died. I guess that makes it major.”

  “Was one of your doctors a woman resident named Abigail DiMatteo?”

  “Yeah. She saw me every day. Real nice lady.”

  “Did she or any of the other doctors tell you the consequences of having your spleen removed?”

  “They said I could have bad infections if I’m not careful.”

  “Fatal infections. Did they say that?”

  “Uh . . . maybe.”

  “Did they mention anything about an accidental nick during surgery?”

  “What?”

  “A scalpel slipping, cutting the spleen. Causing a lot of bleeding.”

  “No.” The man was leaning toward him now, with a look of intense worry. “Did something like that happen to me?”

  “We’d like to confirm the facts. All we need is your consent to obtain your medical record.”

  “Why?”

  “It would be in your interest, Mr. Flynt, to know if the loss of your spleen was, in fact, due to surgical error. If a mistake was made, then you’ve suffered unnecessary damage. And you should be compensated.”

  Mr. Flynt said nothing. He looked at the boy, who was listening to the conversation. Probably understanding none of it. Then he looked at the pen that was being offered to him.

  “By compensation, Mr. Flynt,” said the attorney, “I was referring to money.”

  The man took the pen and signed his name.

  Back in his car, Sussman slipped the signed records request form in his briefcase and reached once again for the list. There were four more names, four more signatures to obtain. He should have no problem. Greed and retribution were a powerful combination.

  He crossed off the name Flynt, Harold, and started the car.

  10

  “It was a pig’s heart. They probably left it in my car the night before, where it baked all day in the heat. I still can’t get rid of the smell.”

  “The man is mindfucking you,” said Vivian Chao. “I say you should fuck him right back.”

  Abby and Vivian pushed through the front doors and crossed the lobby to the elevators. It was Sunday noon at Massachusetts General, and the public elevator was already crammed tight with visitors and get-well balloons bobbing overhead. The doors slid shut and the scent of carnations was instantly overpowering.

  “We don’t have any proof,” murmured Abby. “We can’t be sure he’s the one doing this.”

  “Who else would it be? Look what he’s done already. Manufacturing lawsuits. Shoving you in public. I’m telling you, DiMatteo, it’s time to press charges. Assault. Terroristic threatening.”

  “The problem is, I understand why he’s doing it. He’s upset. His wife’s having a rocky postop course.”

  “Do I detect a note of guilt?”

  Abby sighed. “It’s hard not to feel guilty every time I pass her bed.”

  They stepped off the elevator onto the fourth floor and headed up the hall toward the cardiac surgery wing.

  “He has the money to make your life hell for a very long time,” said Vivian. “You’ve got one lawsuit against you already. There’ll probably be more.”

  “I think there already are. Medical Records told me they’ve had six more chart requests from Hawkes, Craig and Sussman. That’s the law firm representing Joe Terrio.”

  Vivian stopped and stared at her. “Jesus. You’re going to be in court for the rest of your natural life.”

  “Or until I resign. Like you.”

  Vivian began walking again, her stride as fierce as ever. The little Asian Amazon, afraid of nothing.

  “How come you aren’t fucking back?” said Abby.

  “I’m trying to. The problem is, the man we’re up against is Victor Voss. When I mentioned that name to my attorney, she turned a few shades whiter. Which is an amazing feat for a black woman.”

  “What was her advice?”

  “To walk away from it. And call myself lucky that I’m already a board-eligible surgeon. At least I can find another job. Or open up my own practice.”

  “Voss scares her that much?”

  “She wouldn’t admit it, but yes. He scares a lot of people. I’m in no position to fight, anyway. I was the one in charge, so it’s my head that rolls. We stole a heart, DiMatteo. There’s no way around that. If it had been anyone else but Victor Voss, we might have gotten away with it. Now it’s costing me.” She looked at Abby. “But not as much as it could cost you.”

  “At least I still have my job.”

  “For how long? You’re only a second-year resident. You’ve got to start fighting back, Abby. Don’t let him ruin you. You’re too good a doctor to be forced out.”

  Abby shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder if it was all worth it.”

  “Worth it?” Vivian stopped outside Room 417. “Take a look. You tell me.” She knocked on the door, then stepped into the room.

  The boy was sitting up in bed, fussing with a TV remote. If not for the Red Sox cap on his head, Abby might not have recognized Josh O’Day, so transformed was his appearance by the rosy flush of health. At his first glimpse of Vivian, he grinned hugely.

  “Hey, Dr. Chao!” he whooped. “Geez, I wondered if you were ever coming to see me.”

  “I did come by,” said Vivian. “Twice. But you were always asleep.” She shook her head in mock disgust. “Typical lazy teenager.”

  They both laughed. There was a brief silence. Then, almost shyly, Josh opened his arms for a hug.

  For a moment Vivian didn’t move. It was as if she didn’t know how to respond. Then she suddenly snapped free of some invisible restraint and stepped toward him. The embrace was brief and clumsy. Vivian seemed almost relieved when it was over.

  “So how are you?” she asked.

  “Real good. Hey, didja see?” He pointed to the TV. “My dad brought me all those baseball tapes. But we can’t figure out how to hook up the VCR. You know how to do it?”

  “I’d probably blow up the TV.”

  “And you’re a doctor?”

  “Okay. Next time you need surgery, buster, you call a TV repairman.” She nodded toward Abby. “You remember Dr. DiMatteo, don’t you?”

  Josh looked uncertainly at Abby. “I think so. I mean . . .” He shrugged. “I forgot some things, you know? Things that happened last week. It’s almost like I got dumb or something.”

  “That’s nothing to worry about,” said Vivian. “When your heart stops, Josh, you don’t get enough blood to your brain. You can forget a few things.” She touched his shoulder. It was not the sort of thing Vivian Chao would normally do.
But there she was, actually making contact. “At least you didn’t forget me,” she said. And added with a laugh, “Though you may have tried.”

  Josh looked down at the bedspread. “Dr. Chao,” he said softly, “I don’t ever want to forget you.”

  Neither one spoke for a moment. They seemed frozen by embarrassment in that awkward pose, Vivian’s hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy looking downward, his face hidden under the bill of his cap.

  Abby had to turn away and focus on something else. The trophies. They were all there, all the ribbons and plaques, arranged on the nightstand. No longer an altar to a dying boy, but a celebration of life. Of rebirth.

  There was a knock on the door and a woman called out: “Joshie?”

  “Hey, Mom,” said Josh.

  The door swung open and the room was invaded by parents and siblings and aunts and uncles, sweeping in with them a forest of helium balloons and the smell of McDonald’s fries. They swarmed around the bed, assaulted Josh with hugs and kisses and exclamations of “Look at him!” “He looks so good.” “Doesn’t he look good?” Josh bore it all with an expression of sheepish delight. He didn’t seem to notice that Vivian had slipped away from his bedside, to make room for the noisy army of O’Days.

  “Josh, honey, we brought Uncle Harry from Newbury. He knows all about VCRs. He can hook it up, can’t you, Harry?”

  “Oh, sure. I do all my neighbors’ VCRs.”

  “Did you bring the right wires, Harry? You sure you got all the wires you need?”

  “You think I’d forget the wires?”

  “Look, Josh. Three extra-large orders of fries. It’s okay, isn’t it? Dr. Tarasoff didn’t say you couldn’t have fries?”

  “Mom, we forgot the camera! I was gonna take a picture of Josh’s scar.”

  “You don’t want a picture of his scar.”

  “My teacher said it’d be cool.”

  “Your teacher’s too old to use words like cool. No pictures of scars. That’s an invasion of privacy.”

  “Hey Josh, you need any help eating those fries?”

  “So Harry, you think you can hook it up?”